


Come Down, My Little Darling

by Alcoholic_kangaroo



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-27 17:06:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15689715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alcoholic_kangaroo/pseuds/Alcoholic_kangaroo
Summary: Jonathan takes things too far with his obsession for his little brother.





	Come Down, My Little Darling

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a oneshot but let's go for a two parter instead since it got a bit long.

The house is silent besides the hum of the furnace. It often feels like this, on the outskirts of town where the traffic is usually scarce and there are no neighbors nearby throwing wild parties or shushing screaming infants. It would be almost soothing, the peaceful silence, if Jonathan knew Will was safe in bed. Or if he was at least home, in the shower, maybe, or reading on the couch, except then it would no longer be silence, of course. But that would be fine. The roar of the shower or the gentle sound of turning pages would be welcome. Jonathan would rather have his brother than silence. He worries about him when he's out. He worries about him when he cannot see him. He worries about him traveling alone, especially at night, alone, in the dark.

That was their mother's idea. Jonathan had protested when she first started allowing him to bike to school, then again when she had allowed him to start biking home from Mike's house in the middle of the night. The lights on the bike had been his own idea, Jonathan had paid for and installed them on Will's bike by his own initiative, but he would have preferred to simply drive over and pick up his baby brother when he was ready to come home. He really didn't mind doing so. It wasn't that long of a drive and he always enjoyed listening to Will gush about whatever they had done that day. Sometimes a passing car would drive by, flooding Will's face with white light, giving him a glowing, ethereal appearance, like an angel, or maybe an alien.

Why hasn't he called? It's getting so late now and they both have school tomorrow. Surely the Wheelers wouldn't let the kids stay there half the night, playing their game? They never have before. If their game is really running this late Will knows better than to not call home and let Jonathan know what's happening. He always calls when he loses track of time; he's a good, responsible kid. He knows his big brother worries about him. Even if he does complain when Jonathan insists on driving over to pick him up because he thinks it makes him look like a baby in front of his friends.

He practically is a baby! It doesn't seem that long ago since Will had been in diapers, waiting eagerly every afternoon for Jonathan to return home from school. It was always his job to play with Will and keep him busy in the afternoons while their mother worked and their father slept. Their mother had never told him that keeping Will quiet and entertained was his job but if Lonnie was awoken by a screaming toddler the belt would make an appearance.

Lonnie liked the belt. He had used it on Jonathan plenty of times growing up, and he had tried to use it on Will. But Lonnie was usually drunk back then and by the time he was able to free the belt from its loops Jonathan would have Will scooped up into his arms and hidden behind a locked bedroom door. Jonathan always did his best to make sure his brother never went through what he had, the very idea of it left an ache in his chest. And he had protected him from their father pretty well, for the most part. Except Jonathan couldn't always be there. Sometimes he had to use the bathroom or answer the phone.

The one time their father had struck Will with the black leather strap, Jonathan had punched Lonnie in the stomach and screamed into the old man's face to leave his little brother alone. His own beating had left him unable to sit for a week.

Maybe Will has already left the Wheeler's house.. Maybe he left hours ago and something happened. A hit and run, his bike a mangled wreck in the middle of the road. A pack of wolves, his body a mangled wreck in the middle of the forest. Some predator in a white van, his innocence a mangled wreck on bloody sheets.

Jonathan taps his nails on the kitchen table and continues to wait, watching the movement of his own fingers, almost hypnotizing himself with the repetitive motion. But it's not enough to distract himself from his own intrusive thoughts. He ignores the cup of cooling tea beside his hand. He looks up at the clock every two minutes, then every minute, then every ten seconds. His fingers tap faster. The increasing speed of his nails on wood like a rapid heartbeat.

He's standing, about to walk to the phone and call the Wheelers or maybe just grab his keys and rush over there, when the door opens. And there's Will, standing in the doorway, wearing his hand-me-down flannel shirt and orange vest. He's breathing erratically, his backpack already unzipped and gripped in one hand as he searches through it.

“Calm down,” Jonathan instructs, rushing to him. Will's breath is coming out thin-sounding, like a strong wind down a narrow alley. Jonathan takes the backpack from him and immediately empties it onto the nearest chair. He spots the fist sized hunk of plastic and grabs it, shoving it into Will's hand. The boy urgently brings the inhaler to his mouth and pumps it twice.

“It's okay,” Jonathan soothes, putting his arms around Will. His face is dark as he fights to pull in enough oxygen. The boy rests his temple against Jonathan's chest, listening to his heartbeat as Jonathan breathes along with him, trying to direct it. In, out, in, out. Just like when he was small. Brief memories flash through Jonathan's mind of a three year old boy desperately trying to catch his breath as his big brother drags him into the bedroom so their father cannot hear. His breath is hot on Jonathan's chest, ruffling the thin fabric of his t-shirt. He feels as small and fragile in his arms now as he did that day nearly ten years ago.

The wheezing, windy sound from his throat fades. His breathing evens out. The redness of his face pales to Will's normal coloring, pale in November as the last hints of summer tan have long been drained from the cells.

Jonathan pulls him back by the shoulders, looking at him. He asks, more sternly than he needs to, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Will nods. He continues to take deep, slow breathes. His eyes still look wide with fright, stunningly dark against his skin. “My fingers are still tingling.”

“What happened?” Jonathan asks, pulling Will back close in a protective hug. His fingers curl over Will's shoulder. Will's own arms come up around Jonathan's waist, his grip loose and weak around him. “You haven't had an attack that bad in awhile.”

“I don't know,” the boy mumbles into his brother's chest. He presses his face in deeper, needing comforting after his ordeal. Comforting that Jonathan is more than willing to give him. He holds him close as if he were a much younger child. “Maybe, maybe it's because it's cold out. Or the leaves falling. I was coughing some at Mike's but it's been so long since I had one I, I didn't even think about it.”

“You've got to be more careful,” he tells him. His fingers entangle in his hair, holding Will's head close to him. “You could have died.”

“I thought I was going to,” Will confesses, voice warbling. He's not crying but he's not quiet; he's very upset. “It hit halfway home and I didn't think I would make it. I thought about stopping to find my inhaler but I couldn't see in the dark.”

“Well, that's your own fault for being out so late, isn't it?” Jonathan asks. He releases Will from his grip and gently pushes him away. He's still shaking. “It's late, go take a bath and warm up. We both need to get to bed.”

Will spends nearly an hour in the bathroom. Several times, Jonathan hears the water turn on and back off as the boy adds fresh hot water to his bath. He sits at the kitchen table, reading his history book, the tightness in his own chest finally easing at the knowledge that Will is home and safe and treating his lungs with a room full of hot steam.

The silence is gone now and Jonathan is perfectly okay with that. He listens with a content heart to Will's soft singing down the hall. His ears perk at the subtle splashes and trickles of warm water falling from a small distance. He recognizes those sounds perfectly, Will is playing in the bathtub. Something that by the age of twelve Jonathan had far outgrown but Jonathan had matured in both body and mind at a much earlier age than his little brother. Jonathan has always made sure Will didn't need to.

Still, Jonathan had expected the small basket of toys in the corner by the tub to disappear years ago. But they still sit there, filmy white from the hardness of their water, the bin filled to the brim with Happy Meal toys as well as a couple of old plastic cups and a handful of Matchbox Cars. The Happy Meal toys make up the brunt of his collection, a remnant of Lonnie's custodial rights. He almost always took them to McDonald's, back when he could actually be bothered to pick them up. Will has been old enough to order off the adult menu for several years but Lonnie had insisted he kept to the kid's menu as long as he could because it was cheaper and Will looked young enough to keep getting away with it.

The cheap bastard. Even if Will hadn't minded eating off the kid's menu, insisting he liked getting the toys, it angered Jonathan to know his father couldn't bother to fork out an extra dollar for his youngest son. But at least it kept Will with a well-stocked bathtub.

By the time Jonathan finishes him homework he knows it is well and truly late. He needs to get Will into bed immediately or the boy won't be able to wake up in the morning. And, God, does Jonathan hate pulling him out of bed when he's overtired. Puffy eyed, whiny, pleading with Jonathan to let him stay home from school. His body warm from sleep as if racked with a fever.

He puts his books and folders away in his backpack, then packs up Will's as well. His little brother had left all his school things in a pile on the living room table, his backpack full of weekend-only essentials, and it will be easier to get out in the morning if Jonathan has his backpack ready to go for him.

He's careful to slip the boy's math book into his binder, protecting it from being crushed and having the rings misaligned. Will's been asking for a Trapper Keeper lately. His friends all have them but their mother hadn't had the money to waste on something so extravagant. But Christmas is coming up and Jonathan saw one with a cool design at K-Mart awhile back, it had shades of orange and teal and had been covered in an array of different sized sprockets on an abstract design. Will would probably love it and be excited to receive it as a Christmas present.

Both backpacks are set by the front door, zipped up, ready to go. Jonathan grabs a towel from the full laundry basket in the corner of the kitchen and goes to get his brother out of the tub.

“Will,” Jonathan calls, knocking on the door. “Come on buddy, you need to get to sleep.”

“One second,” Will calls back, voice echoing in the small, tiled room. Jonathan pushes the door open and glances in, checking on him. A cloud of steam rolls from the open door, warm and opaque. Jonathan's face feels damp.

There's soap in his brother's hair, a mass of foam and bubbles worked through the individual strands, gathered up into a mohawk on top of his head. It makes his face look more angular, less soft than his usual bowl cut. He doesn't see Jonathan watching him, his eyes are clenched shut as he pours cups of water over his head, rinsing off the shampoo. The suds wash down over his knobby shoulders and the curve of his spine, accentuating his skinniness with glistening wet skin. For a moment the slippery soap gives him the appearance of a well-oiled body builder. A hilarious image for Jonathan to have in his head, as if his brother's skinny little biceps could lift anything much heavier than his backpack.

His hair looks longer now, sopping wet and hanging against his cheeks. Will pushes the wet locks back, not quite long enough to tuck behind his ears but close. He rubs at his eyes before opening them, making sure his face is free of any stinging chemicals.

Something about seeing him like this gives off a sense of how young he is. His smallness, when no concealed beneath layers of shirts and jackets. He seems so vulnerable. Jonathan watches him gather up his toys; a green boat, some figurines, a couple cars. He leans over the bathtub to dump them all into his basket, obeying their mother's rule that no toys are to be left sitting in the tub. He's always so obedient and well behaved. He leans down to his feet to pull the plug on the tub, the top of his ass crack flashing in Jonathan's direction as he waits for him. But Will doesn't move, he just kneels in the slowly draining water, watching the swirling drain. The vertebrae along his spine stand out.

“Will, come on,” Jonathan urges again. “It's really late.”

The boy pulls himself out of the tub, careful not to slip in the soapy water, and turns to Jonathan. His skin is pink from the heat, fingers pruney as he reaches for the towel that Jonathan holds out to him. He wraps it around his hips, his stomach left exposed to the hot, muggy air of the bathroom. There's water in his navel, filling it like an ant-sized hot tub. Jonathan reaches for the towel, unknotting it, and pulling it up around Will's shoulders to envelope him completely. The pre-teen complains, but Jonathan ignores the whining, telling him he needs to dry off completely.

“Come on, let's go to bed,” he says, already pulling Will towards his own bedroom.

“I can sleep by myself,” Will protests, trying to pull away from Jonathan's grip. He nearly succeeds, slippery as a salt-water eel, but Jonathan tightens his grip and his hand stops at the boy's wrist.

“I know you can,” Jonathan says, “But I want you close, in case you have another asthma attack. Just let me keep an eye on you, please. You know I'd kill myself if anything happened to you.”

 

They sleep in the middle of Jonathan's bed, cuddled up together like a pair of puppies. If they were puppies Will would be the runt of the little, with overly large, floppy ears and a tiny button nose. He had been born over a month prematurely, kept in the hospital for an extended stay as they observed his development. Jonathan's memory of this time is hazy at best. He remembers the baby in the yellow box. Will had seemed too small to be real back then, smaller than a baby doll. As small as a honest to goodness puppy. Well, a large breed one, anyway.

Except without the hair, of course. Will had been entirely hairless at birth, Small, and pink, and wrinkly like a baby mouse. When Jonathan had asked why he was so bald their mother had told him it was because he was in such a hurry to come out that he hadn't had time to grow hair yet. “Hair comes last, he was too busy working on his lungs.”

He should have spent more time working on his lungs. If he had, maybe Will wouldn't have been born with asthma. Maybe he wouldn't have had to spend so much time in his younger years stuck inside because it was too dusty or too windy or there was too much pollen in the air. It was something he began to outgrow as he grew older, as his chest broadened and his lungs expanded. But it didn't matter by then, his early upbringing had cemented his personality as a quiet, introverted young boy who preferred crayons and board games over balls and BB guns.

Jonathan wakes several times throughout the night, anxious as he listens for Will's breathing. It's been nearly a year since his last attack but they always came in clusters in the past, several of them racking his tiny body throughout the course of several days and nights. Maybe tonight's was a freak occurrence, a reaction to something in Mike's basement, but Jonathan is on alert. He's reverted back to protective big brother mode after years of this routine, even if Will doesn't want him to do so.

But every time he awakens all he hears is deep, even breathing, and the slightest whistle from his little brother's nostrils as he slumbers the night away in his brother's arms. He's very warm and Jonathan's comforter is very heavy. It really is too warm beneath the covers, Will's skin has become slick with sweat, but he doesn't awake. Not even when their mother arrives sometime after midnight. Jonathan wakes up to the familiar sound of her puttering around the kitchen, probably fixing herself a midnight snack. It's a distracting noise, a cacophony of slamming cabinets and running water. He doesn't fall asleep again until he hears her door click shut at the end of the hallway.

The hum of the furnace puts him back to sleep.

He wakes up at 1:42 to find he has distanced himself from Will's overheated body. He turns and slings his arm back around his brother's hip, pressing himself back against his body. He can hear his calm, even breathing with his ear pressed between his shoulder blades.

He wakes up at 2:57. Will has turned over in his sleep. His face is pressed against Jonathan's chest. His breath is damp against Jonathan's t-shirt.

At 3:23 Will has kicked off the covers and is sleeping on his back, his fingers curled around Jonathan's hips. He's snoring, his mouth wide open. Drying out his teeth. Jonathan gentle pushes him onto his side to get him to be quiet. Breathing with your mouth open is bad for your gums.

At 4:12, Jonathan awakes to Will touching himself.

It's not a deliberate act. Will is still asleep, his hand shoved down into his pajama pants. He writhes on the mattress, little whimpers escaping his throat as he pushes forward against his own hand. The movement is languid, lacking any rhythm or force. He's sleep masturbating. There might be a more accurate, scientific term for such an action, but that's the gist of it; he's sleep masturbating.

It's shocking. Never in his life has Jonathan ever considered the fact that his little brother might be a sexual being. Not even in a vague, far off manner where he contemplated babysitting nieces and nephews in the future.

He's his _brother_.

His _baby brother_.

Baby brothers aren't supposed to do this. They're not supposed to masturbate in their sleep. They're not supposed to masturbate period. Even the fact he has morning wood, if you could call it such, is preposterous. The only thing Will should be using that particular part of his body for is peeing, and maybe writing his name in the snow, but that's it. He shouldn't be receiving any sort of physical pleasure from its presence.

Jonathan feels like throwing up.

Nevertheless, he pulls himself up into a sitting position to watch Will out of some perverse desire. That sort of desire that causes you to slow down to stare at a car accident on the side of the road. Or the sort of desire that causes one to flip through a copy of _National Geographic_ just to spot parasite-ridden flesh or war ravaged foreign lands.

It's that hour of the night where the moon is at the perfect angle to shine through his bedroom window and it illuminates his little brother in a jagged outline. It's a strange juxtaposition, the softness of the cold moonlight against the sharp angles his windowsill molds it into. Will's face is clearly visible in this white glow, his eyelids fluttering, eyelashes kissing his round cheeks. He looks like he's in pain, brow furrowed, beaded with sweat. The little whimpers escaping his lips sound painful.

Is he even hard? If he was hard surely the sounds coming from him would be more...pleasant? Maybe he's just pulling at his soft penis in his sleep, hurting himself. Jonathan did that sometimes when he was young. He'd often wake up with his hand in his pants, his dick hurting for days after his sleep-self left his penis chaffed and sore. Some strange adolescent need to fondle himself in his sleep as puberty crept in.

Will's entering puberty. He has to be. He's still small and his voice is still high but he's twelve and a half. The idea makes Jonathan slightly ill. He doesn't want to image his little brother's voice cracking and acne marring his perfect skin. He prefers to imagine Will how he is now is how he will be forever. Soft skinned, floppy haired, with big eyes and a sweet round face.

Instead, here he is, moaning in his sleep and clearly aroused.

Jonathan can see that now. As Will pulls his hands from his pants to scratch at his nose Jonathan can see the clear outline of his little erection casting a shadow in the moonlight. He's small, much smaller than the hard on starting to form in Jonathan's own sweatpants, but not so small as to be labeled pre-pubescent. Yes, he's definitely started puberty if his penis has grown to the size it is.

Is Will dreaming? He's pretty sure that at Will's age his erections weren't caused by anything in particular. Jonathan doesn't recall having dreams about women until he was older. What he does remember dreaming about was being underwater, curled up in a fetal position, his whole body pulsing with pleasure. He would often wake up mid-orgasm, or just slightly after, the cum still warm in his underwear. Back when he used to wear underwear to bed, that is, because he believed society's warning that going commando was “evil.”

Will isn't wearing underwear to bed either. He doesn't wear underwear at all. Jonathan knows this because he does Will's laundry regularly and the little pairs of brief started disappearing from his loads months ago. He hadn't bothered to ask him why he started forgoing the briefs, hadn't even thought of it besides to be glad for a few less pieces of clothing to fold, but it makes sense now.

Will's cartoon-printed briefs are small. They're cute, really, coming in an arrangement of colors from navy blue and lime green to rusty red and canary yellow. But they don't leave much extra room in the front for certain accommodations. Jonathan tries to remember the last time he washed a pair of the undies. Before summer, surely? His little brother started finding his underwear uncomfortable that long ago and couldn't bring it up to anybody?

Maybe a couple packs of boxers would be a better present than a Trapper Keeper. Not as fun, perhaps, but more practical, and more affirming. Would Will appreciate his impending adulthood being acknowledged? Would he feel proud to mimic Jonathan's own choice of apparel? That would be cute. He could buy Will the same brand and color as his own, in a smaller size. If his own come in so small a size; Will is nowhere near moving over to the men's areas in the department store.

Maybe Will would prefer their mother buy his underwear. She's always been the one to do so. If he realizes Jonathan noticed his lack of undergarments it might just embarrass him.

Besides, Jonathan really wants to buy him that Trapper Keeper.

A little gasp draws Jonathan's attention back to Will's prone body. He's not touching himself. One arm lies on his chest, the other tucked into his side, but his erection still stands proudly in the air as Will grinds against emptiness. His body seeking friction but without purpose or consciousness. This is probably leading to a wet dream. It's going to be an embarrassment for both of them, when Will wakes up to wet pajama bottoms, but he can't wake him up and tell him to go to his own bed. Best just to pretend he slept through the entire ordeal and, if he can, try to ignore it completely. If Will wakes up after his orgasm and notices what he did, and sees Jonathan still sound asleep, he might sneak out on his own and take care of the best.

Or he might just sleep through all of it and Jonathan will have to deal with it in the morning when he wakes him up for school. Will is a notoriously heavy sleeper, miraculously. Jonathan had to grow out of that habit, personally, out of the paranoia associated with having an abusive father. He never knew when Lonnie would wake him up with a punch to the face or a belt across his backside.

For the most part, Jonathan did a pretty good job of protecting Will from those surprise morning beatings. Self-trained to awaken to the slightest squeak of a door he would always meet Lonnie in Will's doorway before he had a chance to lay a hand on his sleeping little brother.

Because that's the job of a big brother, to keep other people from touching him. Not just abusive fathers but bullies and strangers as well. Like that one teacher Will had in elementary school that tried to touch him in his classroom after school. Jonathan had only been twelve-years-old himself when he walked in on that incident but he had punched the teacher in the face hard enough to break his nose, which only added injury to insult when the man was immediately fired afterwards.

Nobody touches Will on Jonathan's watch.

Except Will, himself, apparently.

The hand has slipped back into the waistband of the pajama bottoms. How practiced is his little brother with this action if his body automatically does it in his sleep? If he did it that often he wouldn't even have need of wet dreams. Unless Will has some hypersexual disorder that makes him crave constant stimulation? But that idea is absurd. Will? His sweet little innocent brother? There's no way he could be some sex maniac.

He couldn't possibly be having sex, right?

Will and Mike are awfully close and Mike seems like the type to take charge in some “experimental activities.” Would his brother be able to say no to his best friend touching him? Would he even want to say no? The way he always stares at Mike with combination of adoration and longing is a dead giveaway.

The breath catches in Jonathan's throat.

No, they can't be doing stuff like that. He can't explain why that idea is so upsetting, it really shouldn't be, but the idea of anybody touching Will, _anybody_ , causes a pain in Jonathan's chest like his heart is being ripped out.

A little sigh comes from Will's parted lips. Breathy and content. Jonathan imagines the sigh comes out a name.

Is he dreaming about Mike? Is it a memory more than fantasy?

Unable to control himself, Jonathan clutches at the hand . He covers it with his own, his fingers and palm encircling Will's own smaller counterparts and holding them tight through the thin fabric. This is an action he might have gotten away with if he had been slower and more careful with his movement. But he is neither slow nor careful, his frantic grabbing jolts Will's sleeping body and a painful grunt is forced from his chest.

Will comes to with his brother's hand holding his cock. The two brothers' eyes meet in awkward silence.

“Jonathan?” Will asks, his voice small and tinny, “What, what are you doing?”

What _is_ he doing? Will's hand is still trapped in his tight grip, pulling weakly in a pathetic attempt to get away from him. He loosens his hold and Will pulls away immediately, his fingers curled into little fists over his chest but now there's nothing between Jonathan and his brother's penis. And it's still hard. Jonathan can feel the hardness of it in his palm, small and firm and persistently standing at attention like a dutiful little soldier.

It feels nice. Covered in Will's pajama bottoms still it reminds Jonathan, ridiculously, of reindeer antlers before they lose their summer velvet. Jonathan loves deer. He loves animals. He loves anything cute and fuzzy in general.

Will is cute and fuzzy. His hair is tousled and fluffy as he stares down at Jonathan, lips parted in confusion. Jonathan licks his lips and tries to come up with an answer but all the blood seems to have drained from his head down to his own hard cock. He's at least as hard as the little hard on he's holding in his hand.

“I just wanted to help you,” he lies, tightening his grip on Will's adolescent cock. “You were, you were making pained noises in your sleep.”

“Help me?” Will asks, face reddening as he realizes what Jonathan is referring to. He pulls his knees up, trapping Jonathan's hand between his legs. Unintentionally, to be sure, but not an unwanted side effect on Jonathan's part. Will is soft and warm in the area between his stomach and his thighs. Jonathan's hand feels like an egg, nestled somewhere safe and nurturing.

“You know, as your big brother,” Jonathan replies. “That's, what's what I'm supposed to do. Dad would help you if he was a good father.”

“Jonathan,” Will says, voice shaky. “I'm pretty sure this isn't how it works.”

“It is,” Jonathan insists. He tightens his grip on Will's cock. “You, you need somebody to teach you how to do it.”

“I know how to,” Will insists. He reaches out and tries to push Jonathan away from him but his arms are skinny and weak compared to Jonathan's own broad-shouldered physique. “Please, go away.”

“Shh,” Jonathan attempts to soothe Will. He doesn't want to let go of him, he likes how Will's little erection feels in his hand. He likes how warm he is, so close to him. He likes how he smells, like shampoo and Jonathan's bed and just that familiar, homey scent that is his own little brother's unique scent. “I'm not going to hurt you.”

He pries his empty hand between Will's knees and insistently pushes his legs down. Will resists, pushing back, his thighs trembling with the effort.

“I'm just being a good brother,” Jonathan insists, speaking warmly, lovingly. He gets up onto his knees and leans over his brother's body, covering him. He nuzzles his nose into the boy's soft hair and breathes in. “Not going to hurt you, buddy.”

Will doesn't say anything. He's breathing heavily, his body trembling. Jonathan kisses his brother's scalp soothingly. He's not going to hurt Will.

He uses his weight to hold Will's legs in place, spreading them open so he can get to his erection, his knees serving as a barrier. It's still as hard as ever. Jonathan tugs his pants down just enough to expose the hard on as well as his hairless scrotum, still tight against his body. Darling. Maybe Will is a late bloomer.

His cock is pale pink in the moonlight like cherry blossoms. Bleached looking because there's no way anybody's cock can be such a pretty shade of coral.

Jonathan doesn't realize how much he needs to taste it until he has it in his mouth. Will writhes under him, whimpering, but all Jonathan can think about is how much he needs this. He needs to feel this part of his brother in his mouth, he needs to taste him. And more importantly, he needs to make Will feel good.

He knows Will is feeling good because of the little gasp he made when he first took him in his mouth and the way he's breathing now. Deep but short little stutters through his nose. He's also pressing up against Jonathan's mouth, as if trying to fuck his throat, but that won't do. Will is too innocent for such a thing so he holds the boy down by his bony hips, keeping him in place.

The sweet little erection is so small that Jonathan doesn't even have to deep throat it. The head barely knocks at the back of his throat. He tastes wonderful and Jonathan can't help be touch himself as he pleasures his little brother, his own hand slipping into his own PJ bottoms and jerking at himself with a much rougher touch than the one he's using on his brother.

“Jonathan,” Will pleads, his own name coming out long and high-pitched from his little brother's throat. “Jonathan, please.”

More. He needs more. Jonathan needs more too.

He pulls off the boy's penis, giving it a quick glance. It's shiny and wet with saliva, and oh so very hard.

When he kisses Will he kisses him softly and sweetly, like a big brother should kiss a little brother. No tongue, just a gentle press of lips. Will's hands press at his shoulders, trying to push him away. Will can be picky that way. Sometimes he loves when Jonathan is affectionate with him, and sometimes he yells at him to stop babying him.

“I'm going to make you feel really good,” he promises Will as he leans over him to grab for the lotion on the bedside table. Will grunts beneath him, half-crushed by his body weight. He feels his cock, still hard and damp, press against his stomach. “Love you so much, Will. Trust me. Not going to hurt you.”

And he doesn't hurt Will either. He knows he doesn't. Even when tears start to stream down Will's face when he works the second finger into him Jonathan knows it's not out of pain because he's being so careful with him. He must be overwhelmed. So Jonathan sides up next to him, his body pressed against his brother's, and kisses his wet, salty cheeks, as he thrusts two fingers in and out of his brother's little hole. He tells Will how much he loves him, how important he is to him.

He tells Will he's the best brother in the world as he works the third finger in.

He tells Will he'll always be there for him as he spreads his legs around his hips.

He tells Will he'll always protect him as he lifts his hips.

He tells Will he loves him as he enters him.

Will's back arches off the bed, his hands grabbing at the sheets, and he looks beautiful. His mouth is open in a silent scream, his eyes clenched shut. Jonathan strokes the soft down on his calf as he waits for Will to adjust to the feeling. His skinny chest heaves, the soft, vulnerable swell of his belly quivers.

Jonathan touches the quivering belly, strokes the little indent of his naval. Then he slides his hands up and over, encircling his tiny waist. He's so small that Jonathan can almost fit both of his hands around the smallest part of his body. He slides them up over his ribs, back in, and finds the tiny little nipples. They're hard, bud-like, resembling nothing more than two little cinnamon candies. Jonathan bends down over Will's body to nip at them but they lack any cinnamon tones.

He takes Will's arms and directs them around himself, telling Will to hold on as he makes love to him.

He tells him he loves him again, and again, and again.

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

Will is crying in pleasure. Jonathan kisses the tears away. He grabs at Will's bobbing cock and helps him along with gentle, loving hands.

Afterwards, Will is still crying.

Jonathan sits beside him, bewildered, as Will cries in the pillow beside him. His own body is still thrumming with pleasure and there's a sheen of sweat on both of their bodies. His head feels fuzzy as he tries to make sense of what is happening.

Will came.

He made sure Will came.

So why is he still crying?

“Will,” he says, touching his back. Skin sleek with sweat.

Will pulls away from him, slapping at his hands.

“Get away from me!”

This doesn't make sense. None of this makes sense. Why is Will pushing him away? He just showed him how much he loved him and now Will is telling him to get away from him?

“Will...”

The boy tries to sit up but he makes a pained sounding noise and reaches behind himself, touching himself back where. Where Jonathan had just been. A special place, now, a place that binds them together as more than just normal brothers.

There's red on his thighs.

The lotion was pale orange. Why would there be red on his brother's thighs?

Will's hair hangs over his face, ruffled and unkempt. Jonathan resists the urge to reach over and fix it. Will sits up slowly, careful in his movements.

“Will,” Jonathan repeats, softly. “Will, I love you. Let me hold you.”

“Stay away,” Will sobs out, his voice broken. His breathing is uneven, strained. A sense of uneasiness starts to creep into Jonathan's chest.

“You need your inhaler,” Jonathan says. “Your breathing is off.”

“You raped me!” Will cries out, the words coming out gulping as he swallows back more tears.

“No I didn't,” Jonathan replies, confused. Of course he didn't rape his brother. He loves his brother. How do you rape somebody you love. “You're confused.”

“I want Mom,” the boy demands. “Mom! Mom!”

“No! Stop!” Jonathan says, shushing him, his eyes wide with panic. “She can't know what we did!”

“Mom!” Will calls louder, yelling now.

Jonathan slaps his hand over his brother's mouth. Will pulls away before Jonathan can stop him, already out of bed and two steps towards the door.

He's naked. They're both naked. Will's body look obscene like this, in the open air. He should be laid out on soft blankets, not exposed to the cold air.

Jonathan grabs him by the wrist and yanks him around, throwing him off balance. One of Will's legs goes up in the air for balance before he falls forward back onto the bed.

There's a strange scent in the air. Salty, and musky, and coppery.

Will screams like he's being murdered and Jonathan does the only thing he can do. He grabs a pillow and covers Will's head with it, trying to muffle the sound.

“Be quiet,” he pleads, holding Will down. It's like a bucking bronco, Will scratches at his back with short, sharp fingernails. It stings but Jonathan doesn't relent. “Be quiet. Mom can't hear you. We'll both get in trouble. Be quiet, be quiet, be quiet.”

Will continues to scream. He kicks, trying to push himself up on his arms. Jonathan is straddling him, a leg on each side of his slim body, and it's surprising how much force Will is using against him. He's so small beneath him, nearly sinking into the mattress, but Jonathan needs to apply all his weight to him to him where he is. He feels his own soft cock, overly sensitive still, press into Will's lower back.

“Just stop screaming and I'll let you up,” he begs, holding the pillow as hard as he can, but he can still hear the yelling from beneath it. He presses the edges, trying to block the sound like some pathetic cotton sound barrier. “Stop screaming! Please stop screaming!”

He does. Eventually. But Jonathan doesn't get off him quite yet. Will might just be catching his breath and their mother cannot know. She cannot know what they did. She might try to separate them. She'll tell them what they did was wrong when Jonathan knows it wasn't wrong. How can it be wrong to love somebody as much as he loves his little brother? Surely love can never be wrong.

When it becomes apparent Will has given up, he lifts the pillow.

“Will?”

Will's eyes are open, staring ahead. The usual darkness of his pupils seem faded, the color muted. Jonathan climbs off of him and goes to the side of the bed to look down at him. Will doesn't move.

“Will? Are you okay?”

No response.

Jonathan glances towards the door, still scared that their mother might have heard.

He sits on the edge of the bed and touches Will's face. He waits for Will to recoil.

Will doesn't move. He doesn't blink. He doesn't breathe.

“Will?”


End file.
